Mrs. Pargeter's Plot (16 page)

Mrs Pargeter was intrigued to know how this outcome would be achieved, but restrained her curiosity. She had never forgotten the late Mr Pargeter's advice about there being certain subjects of which she did not need ever to have any knowledge.

‘Meanwhile,' said Truffler, looking again at the wreck of the Jackets' sitting room, ‘I'll go through this lot with the proverbial fine toothcomb. Get back to you when I find out what it was they was after.'

‘
When
? You're that confident?'

‘Yes, Mrs P. I am that confident. These bastards came here to get something, and I'm going to find out what it was.'

Gary's limousine eased along the road like an electric iron over linen. ‘Nearly home now,' the chauffeur called out to the two women in the back. ‘Won't be long.'

Tammy Jacket was seized by another moment of panic. ‘But suppose they find me there?'

Mrs Pargeter's comforting arm was instantly around her shoulders. ‘Nobody's going to find you at Gary's place. You'll be fine.'

Tammy let out a little whimper. ‘Oh, but what can Concrete have done, for them to have smashed our place up like that?'

‘Don't worry. I know Concrete. I'm sure he hasn't done anything really bad. And we'll get to the bottom of it. Truffler's good, he'll sort things out. And it's not as if we just got Truffler on our team. There's a whole lot of other people who used to work with my husband and every one of them's more than ready to—'

She was interrupted by the trilling of the carphone. Gary answered, and switched it through to the back. ‘Pick up the handset, Mrs P. It's Truffler.'

‘Hello?' said Mrs Pargeter into the receiver. ‘You getting anywhere?'

‘Think so. Been through all the safes Tammy listed for me – and blimey, there was a lot of them. Concrete designed that house with more hiding places than a conjuror's tailcoat. But, so far as I can tell, nothing in any of the safes has been touched.'

‘So all the really valuable stuff's OK? They haven't got any of it?' said Mrs Pargeter, raising her voice to include Tammy Jacket in this good news.

Tammy managed a half-smile through her tears.

‘That's the way it looks, yes,' Truffler confirmed. ‘Only thing I haven't been able to find, though . . .'

‘Is what?' Mrs Pargeter prompted.

‘. . . but I can't really think why it would be valuable to anyone . . .'

‘For heaven's sake, Truffler! What're you talking about?'

‘Well, it was what Tammy was showing us when we was round her place the other—'

‘
What
!' Mrs Pargeter almost screamed in exasperation.

‘It was that brochure thing. Those photos of that property development Concrete worked on in Brazil.'

‘Oh?'

‘Now why on earth would those be of value to a bunch of villains?' asked Truffler.

‘Why indeed?' Mrs Pargeter wondered.

Gary's cottage looked as if it was auditioning. Auditioning maybe for the lid of a chocolate box, or Conservative Party election literature, or for one of those British Tourist Board publications which are left optimistically around American travel agents and hotels.

The thatch was done to a turn like the top of a perfect cottage loaf. The black beams, wary of right angles, veered appropriately from the symmetrical. Between them, the walls were as pristine white as Mrs Pargeter's conscience or Gary's criminal record. The leaded windows were suitably irregular. Here were no double-glazed sheets overlaid with fancy beading; the panes' bulges and concavities bore witness to their authentic individuality. The red-brick garden path undulated charmingly.

And, yes, around the green-painted wooden door, roses bloomed.

The sun shone. The requisite birds swooped and glided. Fluffy clouds gambolled like lambkins across the clean blue pasture of the sky, and a warm breeze stirred the lethargy of the rose bushes.

There was even a smell of newly baked bread in the air.

Whatever show it was auditioning for, the cottage must surely have got the part.

Gary's limousine was parked on the gravel in front of the garden, and through the high open gates of the adjacent thatched barn, which he used as a garage, the gleaming bonnets of the rest of his fleet of hire cars could be seen.

Behind the cottage, in a garden heavy with nodding hollyhocks, three women gathered on wooden chairs round a rustic table. The neat evenness of the grass was a tribute to the efforts of Gary and his little red cultivator/tractor, parked neatly under an apple tree. A trailer full of garden refuse was attached to the machine, but somehow even that contrived to look neat.

Mrs Pargeter gazed with satisfaction over the vista of farmers' fields beyond the neatly trimmed hedge, while Denise, Gary's pretty blonde wife, ministered to Tammy Jacket with tea and fancy cakes.

Gary himself was at the end of the garden, wielding a petrol-powered strimmer, whose lethal circular blade attachment scythed through a patch of rough grass at the edge of the fields. The whirring of each burst from its motor alternated with the drowsy hum of insects. Gary worked systematically through the weeds, exuding the quiet contentment of ownership.

Mrs Pargeter extracted herself from a reverie of a rather pleasantly erotic country walk that she and the late Mr Pargeter had once taken in Oxfordshire, and concentrated on what Denise was saying. ‘. . . and Gary's a bit old-fashioned about the idea of my working. He feels that a husband should be able to support his wife and family on his own.'

‘Well, that's fine, isn't it?' Mrs Pargeter agreed easily. ‘Everyone doesn't have to be a feminist career girl, do they? Work out what suits you best as a couple, eh?' Denise nodded. ‘And the car-hire business is going awfully well, I gather?'

‘Oh yes. Splendidly. Has Gary had a word with you about it yet, Mrs Pargeter?'

‘About what?'

Denise looked a little confused, as if she had spoken out of turn. ‘Oh, nothing. No, the business is going very well indeed. We're getting more and more weddings and stuff . . . seems to sort of spread by word of mouth.'

‘Provide a good service and people'll come back for more. My husband always used to say that. Certainly worked for him.'

‘Yes. Did you ever have a job yourself, Mrs Pargeter? I mean, while your husband was alive?'

Mrs Pargeter smiled enigmatically. ‘Erm. Not a job as such, no.' She looked fondly across at Tammy Jacket, who was demolishing a cream cake with considerable enthusiasm. ‘You feeling better now, love, are you?'

Not a hair of the copper-coloured coiffure was stirred by the vigorous nod of reply. ‘Yes. Yes, thank you. Much more relaxed.'

‘Good.'

But the smile faded quickly from Tammy's face. ‘I am worried about Concrete, though . . .'

Mrs Pargeter tried to reassure her. ‘Come on, you weren't before. You said you knew he'd get off and there was no problem.'

‘Yeah . . .' Tammy's mouth twisted with uncertainty. ‘But when I visited him yesterday, he was all . . . odd.'

‘Howdja mean – “odd”?'

‘Well, like sort of . . . scared. I never really seen Concrete scared before.'

‘Any idea what he was scared of?'

‘Well, it was almost like he was . . . scared of being in the nick.'

‘Oh? I thought he was quite used to . . .'

The words were out before Mrs Pargeter had time to stop them. But fortunately Tammy Jacket was too preoccupied to notice any potential lapse of decorum.

‘Yes, yes, he is. It's odd, though, Mrs Pargeter. It's like there's something he's afraid of the other lags finding out . . .'

‘But you've no idea what it could be?'

Slowly, Tammy Jacket shook her head.

Mrs Pargeter pressed on in the hope of further illumination. ‘Do you think it's possibly something to do with Willie Cass's death?'

There was a bewildered shrug. ‘I suppose it could be, but I don't know what.'

‘You say Concrete didn't know Willie that well?'

‘No. Well, I mean just like you do know somebody you work with . . .'

‘Hm.'

Tammy was silent and thoughtful for a moment. Then she said slowly, ‘Unless of course they got pally when they was out in Brazil together.'

Mrs Pargeter focused sharply on the woman. ‘Willie Cass was in Brazil with Concrete?'

‘Yes. Didn't I say?' The casualness of her reply showed how unaware Tammy was of the information's significance.

‘No,' said Mrs Pargeter, just managing to keep the edge of annoyance out of her voice. ‘You didn't.'

Denise was sensitive to the slight change in atmosphere. Instantly she proffered the pot. ‘More tea, anyone?'

A little time had elapsed. The tea things had been cleared from the table, and Denise was inside the cottage doing her chores. Gary was still down the garden. His strimmer was switched off now. He was tidying up, raking together the last swathes of fallen grass, and dumping them in the trailer of his cultivator.

Tammy Jacket lay in a hammock, with a magazine propped up in front of her. But the long gaps between page-turnings and the frequency with which the magazine slipped down on to her lap suggested sleep was not far away. Finally, after the shock of what had happened to her house, she was beginning to relax.

Mrs Pargeter looked up and smiled as Gary came towards her. ‘A good job jobbed?' she asked.

‘Yes.' The chauffeur grinned slightly awkwardly, and lingered in front of her as if there was something he was trying to say.

‘Problem? Something worrying you?'

‘Well, no. Not as such. Not exactly a problem, Mrs P. Just something we once talked about.'

‘Mm?' Mrs Pargeter was pretty certain she knew what was coming. Denise's earlier hesitancy had forewarned her. She saw the chauffeur twisting his fingers nervously. ‘Oh, for heaven's sake, Gary. You don't have to be shy with me. If there's something you want to say, say it.'

‘Yes, well, erm . . . the thing is . . . I don't know if you remember, but a little while ago we were discussing me getting an older car for, erm . . .'

Mrs Pargeter couldn't be doing with all this hesitancy. ‘A vintage Rolls-Royce for weddings, yes.'

‘And I, um . . .'

‘You've changed your mind about accepting my offer of a loan for you to buy one.'

‘Well, yes, I . . . The thing is . . . Denise said—'

‘Have you seen one you like?'

An uncontrollable smile spread over Gary's features. ‘There's a beauty advertised locally. 1938. I've had a butcher's at it. Done a test-drive, and all. In lovely nick. Not cheap, mind, but—'

‘Great. Go out and buy it.'

‘I mean, obviously, if you only mentioned the idea of a loan in a rash moment, I wouldn't want—'

‘Of course I didn't mention it in a rash moment.' Mrs Pargeter took a chequebook out of her handbag. ‘How much do you want?'

‘Now, Mrs Pargeter, it's important that we both regard this as a business arrangement and—'

‘Gary,' said Mrs Pargeter, in a tone as near to exasperation as her equable nature ever got, ‘
how much do you want?
'

In its infinitely graceful British way, the summer afternoon was giving way to evening. Shadows had lengthened. An ecstatic Gary was away confirming the purchase of his beloved 1938 Rolls-Royce. Tammy Jacket still breathed deeply and easily in the hammock. From inside the cottage wafted smells of some wonderful evening meal Denise was preparing.

Mrs Pargeter, still seated at the rustic table, was talking on a mobile phone to Nigel Merriman. She brought the solicitor up to date with what Tammy Jacket had told her. ‘At least it gives us another line of enquiry,' she said. ‘It becomes increasingly important to find out what Concrete Jacket was doing in Brazil, doesn't it?'

‘I have already questioned my client on this matter, but I am afraid he was as unforthcoming about that as he has been about everything else.'

‘Yes, but at that stage you didn't know Willie Cass was out there with him, did you?'

‘I'm not sure that's going to make a lot of difference.'

‘No, but still worth trying, isn't it?'

‘Everything is worth trying, Mrs Pargeter, if it offers even the smallest possibility of clearing my client. I will certainly raise the matter again when I am next in touch with him.'

‘Excellent. Meanwhile, it gives me another line to pursue.'

‘Yes.' There was a tentative silence. ‘Might I ask, Mrs Pargeter, how exactly you will be conducting your enquiries?'

She chuckled. ‘Better not. My late husband was always a great believer in keeping a bit of mystery about one. Let's just say I've got some very useful helpers, and don't worry – you and I are on the same side, Mr Merriman. We're both going to do our level best to see that Concrete Jacket walks out of that prison without a stain on his character.' She corrected herself. ‘Well, without any
more
stains on his character, anyway.'

Nigel Merriman acknowledged this with a rather prim little laugh. ‘Yes, of course. And, Mrs Pargeter, I trust I can rely on you to let me know as soon as there's anything else to tell my client?'

‘Of course you can.'

‘Thank you so much. I may say it is a great comfort for me to know that I have your support in this distressing affair.'

‘No problem at all.'

‘When one works in the legal profession, cynicism about the concept of justice does, I'm afraid, become an occupational hazard.'

‘Don't you worry about that, Nigel my love. We'll see to it that Concrete Jacket gets . . .' She paused, trying to think of the right words.

‘Justice?' the solicitor prompted.